Featured Poet Mary A. Hood

Negative Capability Press will features a poet on our website every month. To submit yourself for consideration, follow the instructions on our Submissions page.

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Mary A. Hood

MARY A. HOOD is Professor Emerita at the University of West Florida. She is the author of The Strangler Fig and Other Tales: Field Notes of a Conservationist and Rivertime: Ecotravel on the World’s Rivers and Walking Seasonal Roads. She has published poems, articles on conservation and the environment as well as numerous scientific articles in the field of microbial ecology.

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                                                             Egg

                                                 River pebble smooth
                                         larger than prayer beads, smaller
                                    than a talismanthey tell stories. In
                              the Finnish creation myth the earth is made
                           from the shards of a duck egg. In our own modern
                        story which is no myth, pesticides make them thin and
                      fragile. Is this what we know of life on this thin egg-shell
                    of an earth. And why as delicate as it is it keeps going, is a
                    mystery. Yellow-eyed, their centers see our nature, good
                      egg or rotten, hardboiled or soft. With all our questions
                           of what came first, my vote goes to the chicken. Then
                            there’s their placement, all in one basket or all over
                              ones’ own face, occasionally one lays one
                                in public or caches them away in a nest.
                                   If one is too brainy he’s quickly labeled
                                    an egg head and best of all in an act
                                         of contrition they offer themselves
                                            up to be sacrificially
                                              hurled at offending
                                                    events.

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Rescuing the Turtle
 
The middle of the road is not a good place to be so I stop
pick up what could be mistaken for a muddy rock
take it to the roadside and point it in the direction of the pond.
It stretches its rubbery legs out swimming in air
and when grounded begins a slow deliberate crawl
to who knows where.

What must it be like to live on the tongue of the earth-
in those soft mushy places where the words
of the wind always blow high overhead
Where with only a little effort you can burrow
into ground’s spongy quilts and pillows
and sleep on and on like a Sunday morning

Where the sky is a physicist’s world
full of dark matter or a monk’s world full of god
never really seeing it but knowing it’s there
Where time is not measured
except in the taste of dandelion leaves
and chicory sprouts and by the way

shadows take form and dissolve into liquidity
Where no matter where your feet take you
it’s home.

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High School

Connie Wilson was drum majorette
in white Nancy boots, baton and tall hat.
Like Delacroix’s Liberty she led the school band.

Varsity all-state, dating the most popular boys
she held the leading role in all the school plays
and as featured soloist in the choir

sang the best parts. She drove a red convertible
Mustang, had a full scholarship to L.S.U. and
from a leading family she lived in a house  

columned and prominent on the town square.  
Sometimes it is easy to know why we love
and why rejection comes as no surprise.

Today Connie would be in her 80’s.
Maybe she’s dead, in a nursing home
wheel-chaired, disabled, with Alzheimer’s.

Because time diminishes the differences
among us, takes away all the yearnings
you would think the lesson
would be to stop wanting.

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Sue Walker Interviews Mary A. Hood

SBW:  I love the way that the Paris Review situates their interviews, and I know that you have traveled the world – Florida and Mississippi and New York – ventured along the Nile, Ganges, and Yangtze rivers – so suppose we are, this morning, in your favorite place, so tell me, Mary, where are we?

MAH:  We would be in my home, Watch Hill Cottage, in the Finger Lakes of New York on a spring morning with the lilacs blooming and the grape vines just beginning to leafing out and down by the creek, the trillium at their peak. In all my travels, I think the most beautiful place on earth is my home in these lakes and hills.

SBW:  Mary, you make me think of Thoreau – and of the importance of walking. The following is one of my favorite Thoreau passages – care to comment?

"... in the distant woods or fields, in unpretending sprout-lands or pastures tracked by rabbits, even in a bleak and, to most, cheerless day, like this, when a villager would be thinking of his inn, I come to myself, I once more feel myself grandly related, and that cold and solitude are friends of mine. I suppose that this value, in my case, is equivalent to what others get by churchgoing and prayer. I come home to my solitary woodland walk as the homesick go home. I thus dispose of the superfluous and see things as they are, grand and beautiful. I have told many that I walk every day about half the daylight, but I think they do not believe it. I wish to get the Concord, the Massachusetts, the America, out of my head and be sane a part of every day." Thoreau on walking.

MAH: “There is probably no other activity that affords us the ease of connecting mind, body, spirit and place” (from Walking Seasonal Roads). In the craziness of today’s world, it seems walking in nature brings a certain peace found nowhere else. But Thoreau did not see nature as an escape from the real world but as a rejuvenating force that might allow not only enlightenment but the energy of activism to make the world a better place.

SBW:  You are variously described as a biologist, botanist, ecologist, poet, historian, humorist, conservationist, grand story teller – and you are also Professor Emerita at the University of West Florida.  How do all of these aspects of Being define who you are?

MAH: The qualities of a scientist are to clarify, to understand the inner connections and to find and express truth. In my roles as scientist, ecologist and poet, I think those are the qualities that characterize my work.   

SBW:  What poets / writers have been of particular import to you?

MAH: My favorite poets are Sylvia Plath and Mary Oliver, plus my friends, Edward Dougherty and Margaret Reed.  Ithaca writer, Diane Ackermann, and Iowa writer, Mary Swander are some of my favorite writers. Of course, they all write in very different styles about different things but what they all do is write with clarity, craft and skill.  

SBW:  What are you currently reading?

MAH: I am currently rereading Chris Authors essays.  His Words of the Grey Wind and several other collections (Irish Nocturnes, Irish Elegies, Irish Haiku, On the Shoreline of Knowledge) contain some of the finest essays written today. Some of his passages raise goosebumps, some make me want to weep and some bring such deep pleasure.    

SBW:  Where did you grow up and where did you go to High School, College, Grad School?

MAH: I grew up in a small town near Baton Rouge, Louisiana, went to school at Southeastern Louisiana College and LSU, did post-doctoral work at Harvard Medical School and Cornell University. My roots are in the south, the deep south, the Louisiana south but my intellect and sense of ethics probably comes from the northeast.

SBW:  In one of your poems, “High School,” you contrast youth and old age.  Connie Wilson had everything – but old age is the ultimate robber. I think that the diminishment that age brings is one of the more difficult adjustments—and you make me think of Shakespeare’s
Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion, Sans eyes, sans teeth, sans taste, sans everything. Since a true “fountain of youth” has not yet been found, how do we make the most of what we have while we have it—instead of “wanting” – what was and what we cannot have?

MAH: How beautifully expressed! In Buddhist philosophy, it is believed that desire is what makes us suffer.  While diminishment certainly comes with old age (and it is so very challenging), I hope the poem also raises the issue of how hard it is to control desire and how foolish many of our desires are.

SBW:  I love your poem titled “Egg” in which you bring together all aspects of “egginess.”  The poem is a concrete poem. Comment, if you will, about form in poetry? Free verse seems to be more prevalent than formal verse – sonnets, sestinas, villanelles, etc.  Should poets be learning and mastering craft?

MAH: I try to write formal verse as often as I can.  Free verse is easy, the formal forms are not but they provide disciple and open the mind to a sense of the complexity of language. Some of my favorites are Elizabeth Bishop’s villanelle, “One Art;” Theodore Roethke’s quatrain, “My Papa’s Waltz,” and Marie Ponsot’s tritina, “Living Room.”

SBW: I love the poem, “Rescuing the Turtle,” especially the final lines:  “Where no matter where your feet take you / it’s home.”  Having travelled the world—and having lived in Florida and upper New York, how do we make wherever we are a definitive home?

MAH: I think to make Home requires effort. It doesn’t just happen without understanding our need for safety, love, beauty, connections, i.e., all those qualities that make us good people; then to go about creating that kind of environment.  I have traveled in some very poor grimy places in the world and discovered that community and connections can make up for the worst poverty.       

In my latest book, Sanctuaries: Parks Preserves and Places of Refuge in the World (still looking for a press) I write about protected lands (over 60 refuges) in 20 countries where people have made Home (or habitat as the term for home is in the biological language) for rare, endangered or threatened species in an effort to protect earth’s biodiversity.

Thank you very much for being one of Negative Capability’s featured poets.

REMEMBERING RICHARD EBERHART

April 6, 2016:  In Memoriam – from a RICHARD EBERHART SYMPOSIUM – a special issue of Negative Capability from 1986.  Special essays, commentary, and poems in this issue include work by:  Michael Benedikt, John Ciardi, Leo Connellan, Stephen Corey,  Robert Creeley, Daniel Hoffman, Denise Levertov, Cleopatra Mathis, Ned O’Gorman, Vivian Shipley, May Swenson, Diane Wakoski, Robert Penn Warren as well as poems by Eberhart himself.  Only a few copies of this issue of Negative Capability are available.  It contains not only poems by Eberhart himself, but memorable essays.  If you would like a copy, contact suebrannanwalker@me.com.

LAOCOON

Richard Eberhart

Evil is such a great structure you can’t surround it,

Can’t controvert it, can’t say it is not there,

An implacable essence in the middle of the road,

A block to the vision, static, holds off encounter,

You do not have any idea that you can overcome it

By intelligence, design, purpose, or practice,

It is a fact of nature in day and in night, whether

You are well or ill, old, or young, favored or unfavored.

You have to carry on as if it were not there,

You cannot afford to be obsessed with its importance,

You have to ignore it, an agile thing to do,

To carry on your life in evenness, with even value,

You have to pretend that evil is not there, will not

Ruin you, does not live only for your destruction

If you want to do what you want to do with the day.

What you would want to do would be to be

The building sculptor with a marble theme, inflict man

With a massive, binding, twining serpent surrounding him

And show man with all his musculature, face

Clenched, holding off the serpent as if forever,

The conflict unresolved by fixation in sculpture,

Life going on for man and snake in enmity.

A FEW REFLECTIONS on MEETING EBERHART by Sue Walker

It was spring in Gainesville, Florida. I had heard that Eberhart was teaching a course

entitled “Eberhart on Eberhart” at the University of Florida.  I wrote that I would like

to publish a special issue of “Negative Capability” – a festschrift – or symposium issue

devoted to him and his work.  He invited my husband and me to lunch.  Betty served a salmon loaf while commenting with appreciation on Dick’s slight moustache.

After lunch they suggested that we tour around Gainesville and visit Lake Alice. Every small think was remarkable – the varying color of the ducks on the water, the shades of spring green – lawn and grass, weeping willow and the dogwoods bursting into bloom. The month was April. We visited Micanopy Cemetery – and Dick got out of the car and read his poems amid the azaleas.  It was a breathtaking, memorable occasion; I wrote this poem.

MICANOPY CEMETERY

(For Richard Eberhart)

Even as I speak, this moment

moves beyond itself

and is gone.

The watch on my wrist marks

the hour but fails to hold it still.

Driving down the long row

of azaleas that line the road

into Micanopy cemetery

when flowers, April ripe,

blaze their crimson bloom,

I would keep these happy boughs,

this flowery afternoon –

an ode on a Florida urn.

Such joy moves

beyond time into spirit –

until a poem that never sheds

its vellum leaves

or bids the Spring adieu

keeps these gray stones teeming

with life as you read

poems beneath an arch of blossoms

forever brilliant, rosy, fair.

So alive standing at grave-head, you say

you do not know if your ashes

should hallow this ground so far from Austin

or if homeland should someday claim your mortal part;

Should your bones and those of William James

share common ground?

Earth will not contain you,

Richard Eberhart.

Your spirit is forever –

in a horse chestnut tree,

a groundhog alive with maggots,

in a squirrel crossing the road.

I thought the morning, the lunch, the afternoon was more time than I ever expected to spend with Richard Eberhart, but in the later afternoon. He said, “go back to your hotel and freshen up, come back, and we’ll go to dinner.” 

After that, we returned to the apartment where the Eberharts were spending the spring semester – and talked and talked late into the night.

“Where did you begin teaching poetry,” I asked.

“Let’s see,” Eberhart replies.  “I began teaching poetry at St. Mark’s School. Yes, I was a graduate student at Harvard thinking that I ought to have a Ph.D., but it was in the depths of the Depression, and everybody’s father had lost his fortune and was selling apples on the sidewalk. So I didn’t continue. I had a Dartmouth B.A. and a Cambridge B.A. and M.A., and I was at Harvard and had every intention of getting a Ph.D. and spending about three years at it, but I would have had to borrow money, so I put in for a teaching post. There was only one teaching post open at Harvard Services then, and 25 people applied for the job. But I got it and felt very good about that. So I was saved for the rest of the Depression, and I lived at St. Mark’s School, a very plush place which I enjoyed ever so much. I guess I lived there like an ostrich with his head in the sand for the rest of the Depression.

“When did Auden come to St. Marks?” I asked.

“He came in 1937. I was there from 1932-40 – or 1941, and I got him to come because I had known his work for years, and I knew about his group in England—Auden, Spender, Day-Lewis, and MacNeice. I knew those four names and their work very well, and I heard Auden was coming over to this country so I asked my headmaster Francis Parkman if we could have a British poet up for a while to teach the boys. I told him that Auden was one of the bests poets in England at the time though not too many Americans knew about him, and ‘Torch’ Parkman—as we affectionately called him, who was very tall, severe, bald, and had a splendid wife and five or six children, said ‘Sure. Get him to come.’ So we had Auden for 30-40 days, and St. Marks was the first position for which he was paid in this country. It was a mighty interesting time to have him there.”

The discussion about Auden continued—and Eberhart added that Auden “invented a certain thing I never forgot. He would take a great poem, say some 18th or 19th century poem, and he would take all the adjectives out of it. Then he would give this poem to a class of boys who were 16 years old or 18 – and ask them to supply the adjectives from their own minds. This was an interesting teaching device because he wanted them to see how much imagination they had. He gave them Thomas Gray’s famous poem, and as a matter of fact, hardly any student hit on the exact words the poet used though they came pretty close.”

There is more about Auden in the interview. In fact there is much more about Eberhart in this collection – especially Eberhart’s essays – especially “The Real And The Unreal.”

“ . . . what is the meaning of memory?”

Here, let me add an aside.  Eberhart’s birthday was April 5 – and Sue Walker’s is April 6.  Somehow we discussed how close our birthdays were.  He laughed – and said can you imagine what fun our parents were having around the 4th of July?”

 What what is poetry, Eberhart asked. “Why is it so deeply ingrained in mankind? And why is it one of the sources of poetry?”

And this time with Eberhard, this collection, is memory – or as Robert Creeley said of Eberhard:

            the so-called real,

            the unequivocal—

            this world.

Sue Walker

An Interview with Dr. Maria Rouphail

By S.E.B. Detling

View fullsize

Maria Rouphail is the author of the chapbook, “Apertures,” a 2012 finalist in Finish Line Press’s “New Women’s Voices” competition, and published in 2013. “Second Skin,” her next collection of poems, was published in the Fall, 2015, by Main Street Rag.

S.E.B. Detling: Dr. Maria Rouphail, congratulations on being the Poet of the Month at Negative Capability, and thank you for taking time to talk with me today. Before we begin, would you mind setting the scene for our readers? Where are we and why did you choose this place for our interview?

Maria Garcia Rouphail: Please allow me to thank you for selecting my poems for publication, and for selecting me as Poet of the Month. Negative Capability is a wonderful place for poetry, so this is truly an honor. I am responding to your invitation for an interview from my home in Raleigh, North Carolina. 

SEBD: Family and memory are recurring themes in your work, as is illustrated in “Flight Plan With a Breakfast Menu” and “Memory Trace” above. I am curious as to how these themes were involved, if at all, in encouraging you to become a writer of poetry?

MGR: “Flight Plan With a Breakfast Menu” emerged quickly during a morning when my younger son was en route to his fiancée. Both are currently in graduate programs in different states. It was also true that repairs were being made to our house here in Raleigh. Imagining the breakfast table in the future where I would in some way continue to “mother” an extended family was irresistible.  I would say that “Memory Trace” lies closer to the obsessions that make me write. I find myself going back and farther back to primordial memory, to the earliest scenes—“traces,” really—memories not given to me by others, but direct sensations that still live in me, such as the taste of iron warmed by the sun, and my mother’s warning voice. I was also thinking about how very young children learn by putting things in their mouths! Odd, I guess, but suddenly an excursion to the Bronx Zoo became cosmic. It was like going back to a personal “Big Bang.”

SEBD: Now working on your third poetry collection, having already completed your first two books, Apertures and Second Skin, would you mind sharing some insights into how your process has changed over time and with experience, or any struggles that you have encountered in the past or present?

MGR: I certainly can’t speak for others, but for me poetry is a need, a joy, and a struggle. I love the work of it, but I do have to work at it principally because I am learning all the time. And I fear that there is not enough time! When I was young, I wrote poetry in English and sometimes in Spanish. And then, I went silent for decades. Now, I am trying to catch up. With whom? With admired poets, living and dead. I am acutely conscious of my limitations and shortcomings. I revise constantly, as I work to refine the line, the stanza, etc.  I am always reading and studying the poetry of others. And I am always amazed!

SEBD: Fellow writers Tony Reevy and Marjorie Hudson mention in their reviews of your second poetry collection, Second Skin, the importance of family and heritage as themes throughout your work, respectively. I also notice a recurrent theme dealing with the sense of sight. For example, in “For Reasons You Never Gave” you mention “periphery” and “seeing me,” in “The Riddle” you have the “peripheral eye” and “the retina,” in “The Deep” you write about “in the night of your seeing,” and in “Winter Light” you write about “shy eyes” and “the almond-eyed ones.” I wonder what you as the author think about these themes and their prevalence in your work?

MGR: The idea of seeing as knowing and being known, of coming into being when one is seen, is compelling and inexhaustible.  Jamaica Kincaid’s The Autobiography of My Mother (1996) comes to mind. Here is a bleak novel of negation in which the withering effects of colonialism are located within the character of Xuela, Kincaid’s protagonist. Xuela can neither give nor receive love because she has lacked a mother’s life-giving gaze. There is also the idea of seeing a thing “slant,” of catching something fleetingly, indirectly, intuitively, as in the corner of the eye. These ways of implying reality intrigue me very much.

SEBD: I would like to spend some more time on “Winter Light,” one of my favorites, if you don’t mind. For readers that may not be aware, this poem was showcased in the 2011 Nazim Hikmet Ran Festival, a celebration of the Turkish poet’s hope for social justice, love of life, and longing for his homeland—key elements also included in this poem.

The first thing that struck me, even before reading the poem, was the inclusion of “Garcia” in your name, Maria Garcia Rouphail. As I continued to read, I discovered your use of place, “Guanabacoa,” physical traits, “the almond-eyed ones,” architectural details, “gingham ghosts in a room / the color of Caribbean coral,” and language, “abuela.” Now please correct me if I am mistaken, but I believe that this poem is about the exile of Cubans in the mid-1800s to the United States during political turmoil and an outbreak of tuberculosis, or essentially an encapsulated summary of a Cuban-American heritage.

Then thinking back to other pieces of your work, I found it interesting that you have poems that could be read as possibly being void of Hispanic heritage, meaning that heritage does not play a factor in their storytelling, as well as others where heritage is a key element. It seems as though your mind, pen, and poems are “Shuttling back and forth / on a rusting ferry across the Florida Straits / between Key West and Guanabacoa.” Tell me, how do you identify yourself as a writer—female, Southern, Latina, Cuban-American, or something else? And as a writer as well as a professor of literature, how do you feel about these labels?

MGR: Thank you for your kinds words about “Winter Light.” You are largely correct about my paternal family of origin. My father’s people arrived from Guanabacoa, Cuba, in the late 19th century, through the 1920’s. My father was born in 1910, and he arrived in Key West, Florida, in 1925. Those generations of Cubans were in the main poor and working class, and they were very politically progressive—as my father certainly was.  His was a complex story of a pregnant mother and one of her sisters ferrying back and forth between La Habana and Cayo Hueso (Key West), but one of the central pieces of the story for me was his mother’s death from tuberculosis shortly after she gave birth to him in Cuba. My father did not know her birth or death dates, or where she was buried. He had only an undated photo of his mother, my abuela. In the photo she couldn’t have been more than a teenager, and she wore a dress typical of the early 1900’s that looked like it might have been gingham. The photo haunts me to this day.

My mother‘s forebears, also mostly poor and working class, were fair skinned Quebecois, Irish, and German. I deeply loved my whole family.  I inherited my father’s dark complexion, hair, and eyes, however, and I was given a fully Spanish name. By virtue of this, my schoolmates in the 1950’s and 60’s reminded me that I was “colored.” The country was overtly racist during that period, so I identified emotionally with black and brown people, as did my parents.

That said, “identity” is fluid, in my opinion. Many highly trained and gifted poets today seem to locate themselves within particular niches, and their projects often thematize the distinguishing features and experiences of identity.  I have alwaysthought about the forces that have made me a woman from a marginalized cultural minority, progressive, born in New York City, raised in the Jim Crow South, and married to a man from another “non-Western” cultural minority. But given where I am in the life cycle, and given the fact that I have not been in an MFA program (I have a doctorate in American literature), I see my “identities” todaymore as functions of my relationships. 

SEBD: In “Winter Light,” I love how you have broken the word “re-membering” in regards to your grandmother in your final question. Just as you have broken the word, which in itself lends to the broken history of emotional and familial ties of this time in history, but also provides a new way to view what the process of remembering is—the actual putting back together of a person, piece by piece, as best as one’s memory allows. You mention in regards to your first collection, Apertures, that you “depended on memory to open its cedar box of precious things.” Would you mind walking me through your writing process and explain how you “re-member” details while you work?

MGR: So, here is where memory becomes the imperative project for me, at least for the present. I have been obsessed with Czeslaw Milosz’s poem “Late Ripeness,” in his final collection Second Space (2004), where he says of the dead, “they dwell in us, / waiting for a fulfillment.” This statement resonates with my felt conviction that the living and the dead remain deeply interconnected, even the dead we’ve never met or known. My mother’s death when I was twenty-four was a grievous loss. My grandmother who died after birthing my father has haunted me, too, and I knew that in calling her forth in a poem I was completing the story she didn’t get to tell. I felt this as an obligation and honor. The same would be true of telling a gruesome thing about a vexatious person who has affected us. We hold them and ourselves up to scrutiny, and maybe even pardon. Somehow, these things have to be told in order to make sense of being alive here and now.

SEBD: In “Flight Plan With a Breakfast Menu,” you describe a transitioning period in your home in regards to family, shifting the focus from the past to the future. Fellow poets from North Carolina, Tony Reevy and Shelby Stephenson, also focus on the subject of “home” in their work. Born into an immigrant family, Tony moves around, constantly searching for a place to put down roots and call home. On the other hand, Shelby consistently writes about his ancestors and how he and his family have been deeply rooted in a particular house and piece of land for over 100 years. It seems as though your sense of home may include a combination of these, along with your own unique splash of Caribbean, coral-colored character. Would you mind painting a picture of what the word “home” means to you and how this is expressed in your work?

MGR: I love the works of these fine poets. I’ve heard Shelby Stephenson read, and let me tell you he is a delight. After he finished one poem about the old homestead, I was prompted to write a “reply” poem that begins, “My dead, you cannot visit them.” It’s what I heard well up in my ear as he finished his lovely piece about generational history. Most of my people lie scattered in graves across international borders or in unremarkable plots across several states. Home is, for me, at once a geographical space (North Carolina, and Chicago, where my children were born and which holds particular pride of place) and a room in the heart where all are gathered.

SEBD: In your review of Helen Losse’s poetry collection Seriously Dangerous, you provide an interesting critique of her poem, “Just Saying.”  The work tells about a car accident where the passengers are trapped in an upside down vehicle, and you note the change of voice from the first-person “I,” to the plural “we,” and then back to the singular subject “I.” In regards to this movement you mention that this “suggests a limit to shared experience.” I think this is an extraordinary insight into the human psyche. Because, if you think about it, there is only a minute portion of our lives that we actually share with others. The majority of our experiences happen within our individual interiors, filtered by our own perspectives. Many times we experience life alongside each other, but as so often happens, in the end each person walks away from the experience with their own version of the truth. This leads me to question, what types of shared experiences do you incorporate in your writing?

MGR: Right. And poetry works to overcome the wall that separates us, even as it affirmspersonal experience. Poetry mediates our solitude, making it shareable and bearable. Such life events as childbirth, surviving serious, even potentially fatal, accidents or illness can be shared.  In my poem, “Now the Crickets Rub Their Wings” I attempted to channel a person in whose presence I sat for some hours and whose personal story had been particularly tragic, but whose oral version of it needed to be translated into English in my hearing. The poem was, in effect, an attempt to overcome a kind of double barrier.

SEBD: The deft manner in which you blend innocence with violence is impressive. For example, in “For Reasons You Never Gave” you write “An occupying army of bees swarms / down the tender throats of the black and blue sage,” and in “The Riddle” there are “Sunrays that are knives on the retina.” When you write these descriptions, where do these juxtaposed, sensory images of innocence and violence come from, and what response are you hoping to receive from the reader?

MGR: The first poem attempts to embody the slow burn of frustration with an intransigent other. The passage you quote from the second poem is in fact a physical recollection of what my eyes experienced on intensely sunny days in south Florida. That particular poem is a “seeing it slant” piece that attempts to capture the fugitive sensations of a very young person whose “identity” is in flux. I’m not sure that I succeed here, but I hope that a reader might recognize something of a younger self at that particular life stage.

SEBD: You expound upon the subject of a “catastrophe” in your review of Helen Losse’s book of poetry, Seriously Dangerous, in which you write, “Here is where art, especially poetry, is particularly necessary and curative, for in affirming life’s mysteries and its pain, art provides agency and control for both artist and for those who engage it. Art helps us to integrate the unthinkable and horrific dark night, thus helping to make tragedy endurable, if not also capable of enlarging rather than diminishing us.” Would you be willing to explain the role that poetry has played as an agent of healing in your life?

MGR: As I mentioned earlier, I went silent for decades and then began to write again during this last decade. Throughout the “great silence” I had been sporadically keeping journals in which I berated myself about not writing! Then, one day, a lyrical line sprang up in me and I wrote it down. I have kept faith with and have been grateful for that dawning.

SEBD: The two poems included here, “Flight Plan With a Breakfast Menu” and “Memory Trace” are works from your third collection. I enjoy a quote that Tony Reevy pulled from your second collection, Second Skin, and I will turn the table and ask the question to you in regards to your current work, “Where are you dreaming now?”

MGR: Well, things are gestating now. I would like to return for a while to translating poems from Spanish. It is something I did when I was young, but haven’t done it for a long while.  I believe that translation provides invaluable knowledge and practice for poets. I read lots of poetry and poets in translation: Taha Muhammad Ali, Adonis, Milosz, Szymborska, Z.Herbert, Transtromer, Akhmatova, Tsvetaeva are particular favorites.

SEBD: Now your turn—you ask the question and you give the answer.

MGR:I believe Whitman when he says that “time avails not.” But I also hear Marvel warning that “time’s winged chariot [is] hurrying near.” By this I mean that I am aware of having so much yet to learn, but I don’t have the luxury of a full life span remaining to me.  What to do? I try to stay focused and present each day when I sit down to write. And I am grateful for every minute.

SEBD: Maria, it has been a great pleasure spending time with you today. Thank you for taking time to answer my questions. And thank you for being part of Negative Capability.

MGR: The pleasure is entirely mine. Thank you so much!